


Queen Takes Pawn

by AndAllForAPrettyFace



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllForAPrettyFace/pseuds/AndAllForAPrettyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From DAKink prompt:</p>
<p>Vivienne is elected as the new Divine and she reinstates the Circle of Magi. The transition is not a pretty one, with all those apostates who have gotten a taste of freedom being dragged in and forced to submit again.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, a mage Trevelyan discovers much to their shock that not even being Inquisitor and saving the world from certain doom is enough to keep the Chantry from knocking. They're dragged off and forced back into the Circle, going from the leader of the most powerful force on Thedas to being a lowly apprentice again overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Takes Pawn

Stupid, useless, childish words spill out of her mouth. _I thought we were friends._

Then-Vivienne, now-Divine Victoria, inclines her head gently.

Some things haven’t changed since the time of the rift in the sky. Vivienne is resplendent in pristine, high-necked robes of white and gold, untouchably lovely, effortlessly charming. Elea Trevelyan is every inch a youngest daughter, clothing defiantly askew, hair defiantly short, jaw defiantly set. They’d set to verbal sparring over that before, her refusal to participate in the pageantry that befit her office. Surely it was only teasing, in jest. It couldn’t have been more. She couldn’t be so wrong. They’d agreed on so many other things—the intricacies of this potion or that spell, the dynamics of so-and-so at court, the necessity and virtue of the Circles and the Templar order.

Templars of the new order line her office. Madame de Fer, Divine Victoria, is waiting calmly.

Elea had been sure she’d done right by endorsing the enchantress to the station. She admired the enchantress, who stood for everything she believed to be righteous about magekind.

She has never understood the Game. She never will.

The new Divine is speaking words that Elea only partially hears. It will be better if she submits, comes quietly. There will be unnecessary bloodshed if the Inquisition resists. There will be unnecessary political strife if the Inquisition revolts.

“Can I speak to my people?” she asks quietly, when there’s a lull. “I could explain. Make it seem like this is—voluntary. Temporary.”

Divine Victoria tuts quietly, with sympathy that may even be genuine. “That would be rather counter to the point, my dear. This is as a play. You must be seen taken away, but I would much rather avoid hurting our comrades in the process. It would be a messy thing, and I am fond of some of them, just as I am fond of you.”

Elea nods. Angry tears are budding in her black eyes. Stupid, useless, childish words spill out of her mouth. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

A painfully gentle hand touches her chin, her cheek. “I know, my dear,” Divine Victoria tells her softly. “But it is necessary. I hope you will come to understand that, in time.”

 

***

 

They take her from the office stripped of her staff. Vivienne has chastised her in the past for carrying it about everywhere— _It’s not a walking stick, dear_ —and now she has no choice.

Maker bless Cassandra for keeping the way clear, for keeping the others in check—Cassandra, who sees them coming down the hall and turns and runs and somehow has a path through the grounds cleared by the time they emerge into the sunlight. Elea wonders if she knew this was coming.

It was always like this, walking alongside the enchantress. She’s tall, regal, voluptuous, physically imposing even without the slight heel of her boot and the towering prongs of her cap. Elea is petite and pale, save for her dark eyes; and despite the lofty station of Inquisitor, she’s always felt in Vivienne’s shadow when they’re side by side.

They’re almost at the gate when she hears him, crashing through the ranks like a hurricane, her knight in shining armor, and with a distraught whine, the tears return. “No, don’t—Cullen—”

Instinct makes her throw herself between the oncoming force and Vivienne. If he killed her, or even if he hurt her—

Two Templars have him caught and pinned. Divine Victoria catches Inquisitor Trevelyan’s eye and gives her a single nod. A farewell is deemed permissible; the enchantress knows how painful it will be, with or without.

“Don’t fight,” she begs him. “Please, Cullen.”

She’s never seen him like this before, all blind rage and trembling hands. It’s like the fits he’d have when the absence of lyrium threatened to overwhelm him but multiplied tenfold. “Like hell,” he spits. “I will not let this stand, Elea.” He surges up and is instantly knocked to the ground by the two standing guard behind. Elea swears, an arm around his shoulders as he tries to rise again, his head ringing, knocked dizzy by the blow.

She rests her brow against his, despite the radiating anger and sweat and the press of his gauntleted hand. She can’t say anything except his name.

“I will not—” he repeats, struggling up, clapping his hand over hers. “I will not—”

“Say your farewells, my dear,” Divine Victoria tells her. “We must away.”

Elea tries to hold onto him for any moment longer for another word, a stolen kiss, a look, anything, _anything_ , but he’s roaring toward Vivienne again, blind rage and trembling hands, and a blow to the back of the head sends him sprawling on the ground. Dimly, Elea sees Cassandra hurrying forward, eyes wide, hurling aside onlookers in her way. She’ll take care of him. She has to take care of him.

It’s Vivienne’s gentle hand on her shoulder as she returns to the convoy, even though it’s Divine Victoria watching over her.

 

***

 

Elea doesn’t bother to listen to the name of the Circle where she’s brought, because she tells herself it won’t last.

This is temporary.

The Inquisition will—

The people will—

The others in the Circle will—

She doesn’t complete those thoughts. She doesn’t think on it. It's  _temporary_.

Vivienne has been thorough in corralling the mages. It’s crowded and stinking in the barracks, with regally clad enchanters alongside filthy rebel hedge-mages.

When she’s assigned a bunk in the apprentice quarters, she’s sure it’s a joke. Stupid, useless, childish words come out unbidden. “But you know who I am.”

The Templar nods grimly. “Aye, milady. And while that mark on your hand surely saved all of Thedas, we don’t know what unnatural powers it might have left behind. Orders are that you’re to be re-harrowed, along with the rest of the disloyal.”

She sees many of the regally clad enchanters being led up to senior barracks. Fury and shame war in the pit of her stomach as she curls up for the night, staring out into the dim room, where she knows that dozens of other eyes are staring back at her.

 

***

 

She begins to identify those who don’t deign to hide their dislike for her, although she doesn’t bother to learn their names, because _this is temporary_.

Jowls – that’s the old biddy, a senior enchantress by right but one who has to earn her way back up the ladder.

Raven – he’s tall, lanky, and he refuses to have his shaggy black hair cut.

Ruby, for the stone in his favorite staff, is an honest apprentice, but he’s popular with the others, and they’ve warned him against her.

Riddle is a plain girl with rough features, but her time out in the world has made her a strong healer and wise beyond her years.

Frog and Toad are brothers with distinct green eyes and distinctly lumpy silhouettes.

There are others.

Those are the six that come for her.

Jowls is on lookout by the door as Riddle keeps her silenced with a simple charm and Ruby drags her into the corner wash room.

Ruby takes the first turn. He knows they have to be quick with her. He shoves his cock in quickly, spends in her quickly; Elea tries to force him out, and he slaps her so hard that her head goes ringing against the stone floor. Riddle muffles the sound with a flick of her fingers.

The brothers take her in quick succession, and she can’t tell which is which. One thrusts into her mouth—Elea tries to bite, but she feels Riddle’s arcane fingers holding her jaw still— and even as he spends down her throat, she can feel the other brother pushing her legs back open. His cock is shorter but broad, and the stretch of it burns.

Raven takes his time, more than he ought to. He bends her over like a dog. He slaps her ass as he finds his rhythm. Riddle muffles the sound with a quiet word. “I lost my best friend to those fucking Templars,” Raven hisses in her ear, breathless with anger and arousal. “She begged— _begged_ for mercy. And those callous arseholes—they’re the ones you picked for your champions, to serve alongside you in the war—they’re the ones who cornered us like dogs and put us in this hellhole—I hear tell you even took one of those bastards for your fucking lover—”

A signal from Jowls at the door, and action hangs in suspension. There’s a Templar near the door, one that Jowls greets nervously. Elea sees the door creak open, sees eyes through the slit as they take her in. And she sees them turn away, and the door clicks shut as Jowls, much relieved, murmurs a good night.

Raven resumes his fearsome pace, plowing into her so hard that her teeth rattle.

Elea closes her eyes and tries to picture Cullen.

 

***

 

Others prod and scoff at her from time to time, and others give her a little pat of approval or encouragement or _Maker bless you, milady,_ and those six still torment her—Raven catches her off-guard and fucks her bloody in the broom closet once, and Frog and Toad keep finding ways to steal a forceful grope—but for the most part, things begin to settle down. Elea Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, feels herself beginning to recede into the background. She knows it’s a mercy.

Still, to think that less than a year ago, there were smallfolk cheering her name, loyal soldiers following her step, friends and companions storming into battle ahead of her, and the commander of her forces—

She tries not to think of it.

Rebel mages are re-harrowed slowly. Alphabetically. “Trevelyan” is a long way down the line.

She waits for a letter, a message, and knows that there won’t be one. “Too risky,” she’s sure, to let such things through.

She’s not sure how much time has passed in this awful place.

Raven catches her in the middle of the night, coming back from the washroom, and takes her roughly against the wall. She flails, striking out blindly, trying to score a lucky hit somewhere sensitive, but he grows tired of her struggles and knocks her head back against the wall, leaving her to sink dizzily against his long, pale arms as he growls and groans against her. His mouth crushes hers. She tries to picture Cullen’s face, but it’s impossible.

Raven leaves her sprawled on the washroom floor, her head still ringing from the blow. As she washes herself with trembling hands, she realizes with a sick twinge that it’s been too long since her last moon’s blood.

 

***

 

She doesn’t speak of it until it’s impossible to hide. She deals with weeks of restless nights and waking nauseous on her own, but even the generously loose apprentice robes will only cover so much. Inquisitor Elea Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, knocked up by Maker-knows-who, amidst the apprentice dorms.

Riddle is assigned as assistant to the healer that sees her. She seems really nervous, the whole time. Elea almost laughs at that.

When they ask her who the father is, she answers _I don’t know_ , and she means it.

 

***

 

She doesn’t know how long they’ve had her in isolation.

It’s sensible, of course. Her very presence is a provocation.

She can feel the child in her belly moving, lying on her back there. For a time, she hopes it will be healthy. For a time after that, she finds she doesn’t care if it dies before it has tasted air. It feels so big. Lanky Raven, maybe, or the stupid, fat brothers. She doesn’t know who the father is. She doesn’t care. She can’t afford to care.

She sees movement at the door, and it’s not a usual mealtime. Elea cranes her neck, looking up. At the window, she sees familiar ebony skin, gorgeous eyes, a high-necked robe of gold and white. A visit from the Divine. A rare privilege. Elea wonders how many months it’s been, that Vivienne can find time to come and check on her progress. She wonders how thoroughly broken she looks, lying there, her stomach swollen and tender, her dark eyes peering out from paper-pale skin, her Inquisitorial raiment traded for a roughspun robe.

Vivienne—Madame de Fer—Divine Victoria—looks on her with eyes that water for pity.

And then they turn away.

Elea feels her unborn child moving in her. She closes her eyes and wonders what kind of child she and Cullen would have made together.


End file.
